


Ganglords and the Ganga

by HackedByAWriter



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: 1984 Blue Star Operation, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Jail, Angst and Tragedy, Article 377 is not Abolished, Ayushmann as ayan lives rent free in my mind, Character Death, Historical References, I cant believe ranjeet made its way into the tags, Kartik and Aman Go to Jail, Multi, Police Brutality, Sad Ending, Torture, Tragedy, Very Dark and Twisted, anyway, back to the point, but my brain was like, fk u sam, god this was supposed to be a serious fic, it was supposed to say section 377, look imma be real with you Karman do not have a very good ending, nope - Freeform, so does ranjeet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24908497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackedByAWriter/pseuds/HackedByAWriter
Summary: When Kartik and Aman’s wedding is interrupted by the police they had their hopes set on the news that section 377 would be abolished by the morrow. The year was 2018 and India was on the cusp of decriminalising homosexuality. But in a disappointing turn of events, this does not happen. In fact, the Supreme Court has ruled these ‘unnatural practices’ must be granted capital punishment to protect India’s sanskars.Through their imprisonment and the knowledge of their impending death, the two plunge into the underbelly of India’s corrupted jail system. Love meets war. History meets the present. The years may go by, time may change, but at the core of every fight lies one thing.Hope.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi, Kusum/Goggle Tripathi
Comments: 31
Kudos: 31





	1. The Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My Father](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+Father).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bapu ji
> 
> This one is for you. I don't know when I will have the courage to show you this fic. I don't know when you will read it. But I am writing this for you. I hope I show it to you someday. I am proud to be your daughter (and as you sometimes say son), the daughter/son of a freedom fighter, the man who almost laid down his life for his beliefs. I am beyond proud never doubt it.
> 
> But there is another thing I am proud of. Something that that would fill you with shame if you knew. As Aman says in the movie:
> 
> "Mein aapke baap nu girrha hoi nahi dekh sakta"
> 
> But I hope someday you come to accept me as I am. I have based Jangbir Singh on you in this fic and I hope you come to realise that your fight and mine are one and the same.
> 
> \- Your Sher Bacchi

The story you are about to read is no happy tale. But it is a tale nonetheless of hope and rebellion. It is a tale that has been told a thousand times but fools and kings alike. And perhaps I am the greater fool for sharing it. There is no glory in these words or in these pages but there is a certain triumph. You may not see it at first my friend, but it is there. Trust me when I say _ it is there _ .

This tale is a poison and a balm. The thesis and antithesis. It is like fire. It warms, it kills, it leaves a black mark and it never heals. Shared it must be for it has poisoned the pen that writes it. 

It starts by the banks of a holy river, where two lovers once turned their backs and laughed.

_ Burn this story. Bury it. Sing it to the stars. I do not care. But speak their names as if it were a prayer. _

_ They were Kartik and Aman. _

_ They were one of us. _

_ They loved. They loved. They loved.  _

\- The Shahid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not for the faint-hearted. I am scaring myself with writing this. But it will not leave my head until I do. Forgive me. I don't want it to fester.


	2. Hidden Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your emotional support during this piece. Updates are irregular because of my own apprehension at writing this.

The Ganga was as quiet as they were. They were sitting with their backs to the holy river. That’s how they had always lived. That may very well be how they died. With their backs to all things holy. Kartik could feel nothing but the beating of his own heart, and the vows of their wedding still rang in his ears. 

_ Yeh dosti hum nahin todenge,  _

_ Todenge dum maghar _

_ Tera saath na chodenge _

He turned Aman beside him, still dressed in the wedding finery, though he had long discarded his turban. His gold sherwani was crumpled, the red dupatta hung loosely at his neck. His bright dark eyes turned to Kartik. The elation of Chaman Chacha’s speech had worn off and they were left with this. The feeling of uncertainty for the future. 

This could very well be the last night of their free lives together. Well, as free as it could be with the police officers eyeing them every five seconds. But Kartik did not care. He could not bring himself to care for their prying eyes. He never had and a jail sentence wasn't going to stop him now. 

“Do you think they will do it?” asked Aman, speaking what was on both of their minds. “Abolish 377?”

“It would be about time,” Kartik answered. Australia had recently legalised same-sex marriage, surely that was a sign. The world was moving forward. Surely, surely India would follow in its wake. 

Kartik remembered that night in Delhi when they first heard the news. 

Aman had been scrolling through his phone while Kartik was fixing their dinner. By then the two of them had accepted that their life, their love, their story will forever remain a secret, known only to them and the stars above. He remembered how a huge grin had splayed across Aman’s face. Kartik remembered asking:

“Is it from your boyfriend?”

But Aman had not even acknowledged the joke, instead, he looked up and Kartik never forgot it. He never forgot that look. His brilliant eyes had glittered with tears but he had been smiling. There was hope in them more than anything. 

“Kartik,” he had whispered. “Kartik…”

He could say no more. So Kartik had leaned forward to take a peek at his phone. It had been a newspaper article. The headline simply said:

_ India set to Abolish Homophobic Laws _

He had found his own eyes clouding with tears then. 

They were clouding with tears now as well as he sat with Aman by the banks of the Ganga. 

But he did not let them fall. To let them fall would be to accept defeat. They were not defeated not yet. Not ever. 

“Even if they don’t do it,” said Kartik softly. “Even if we go to jail, I do not think it will matter.”

“Why?” asked Aman, humouring him. 

Kartik allowed himself to grin “We will be feared. We will become so powerful that everyone in jail will bow down to us.”

Aman laughed. It was a sweet laugh. A laugh that reminded one of summer, sunlight, and wet grass. “Kartik and Aman,” Aman said. “Gang Lords. I like the sound of that.”

“It’s a plan then?” asked Kartik, holding out his hand.

Aman high-fived it. “It’s a plan.” 

But Aman seemed to know, as he always did, the fear that had taken a hold of Kartik’s heart. He looked into Kartik’s eyes and leaned forward pressing their foreheads together.

Jokes of being gang lords aside the thought of going to jail terrified Kartik almost as much as the presence of his father once had. Not only because he was young and had so much life ahead of him. Not only because he was halfway through his honors program for literature at university. 

There was another fear entirely.

He had grown up in Punjab. Beautiful Punjab, golden Punjab, the land of lovers and great poems, the land where an empire once stood tall. He had grown up with the tales of Heer Ranja, Laila Majnu, Sahiba Mirza, Sassi Punnun, and Sohni Mahiwal. But they had not been the only tales.

He had grown up with tales of police persecution. The tales of rape, of murder, and of unimaginable torture all sanctioned under the name of the law. He had grown up with the tales of modern martyrs who inspired no less awe and fear than their predecessors. 

A whole branch of his own family had been slaughtered long before he had been born, including his grandfather Jaspal Singh. He could still remember his grandmother sitting in the corner of her room, holding her husband's turban close to her chest weeping, holding the karra’s of her two dead sons. 

And all for what? Kartik still could not figure it out.

He found he did not want to anyway. Not now, not yet. He pressed his lips against Aman’s and savoured him. He savoured him softly, then fiercely, fervently, as if he were a prayer. As if he were salvation. He wanted the sun to never bring upon its dreadful dawn. He wanted only the night and the moon. He wanted only the sounds of the Ganga flowing behind him. The gods only knew when he could savour him again.

_ Stars oh stars hid your fires  _ Kartik thought  _ Hide the light, hide this cruel world. Kill it if you can. Let not the dawn come, let the sun become cold. Let the world fall in despair. There is light enough, there is love enough in both of us. We can burn the whole world in it. _

  
  



	3. Shere Punjab

_They hoped that justice would be upheld. But justice had taken her sword and killed herself long ago. The scales left shattered._

Did you think I was talking about them? 

The two lovers who kissed by the Ganga?

Perhaps I am. But there is another tale that entwines with theirs. Another story that flows in the same vein. You will come to find, dear reader, that history does not have a habit of repeating. No. It loves to draw parallels, it loves to intersect, and by the gods does it love to rhyme, make poetry out of the most macabre facets of our lives. 

This, the injustice, is the first of many games history will play with us. So, for now, I want you to leave the lovers, I want you to leave them by the sacred river. I want you to let them be. Let them cocoon themselves in hope for a little longer. 

Now, imagine a man. He sits cross-legged on the cot in his cell. Youth has long left him. His long unkempt beard is more white than grey. Over his uncut hair, he binds a keski, a smaller saffron version of the great turban he wears with pride. He is gnarled, weatherbeaten, like an old oak. His expression reminds of you of a wolf. Haggard, hungry, yet stern, powerful and proud.

Somehow though there is no anger no wrath in him. His expression he is serene. 

He sits with his eyes closed. An impeccable posture that would put the false fakirs to shame.

The last words of his nightly prayers echo in the empty cell around him. The words are salvation and protection against the darkness that engulfs him. 

The other prisoners, the inmates would say that they could hear the ghosts of those before them. The chains of those long perished would clink in the night. They would hear whispers, scratchy, hoarse. Some would see horrific apparitions in the dead of the night, staring down on them with fire in their eyes. 

No one sleeps in this dreadful place not truly.

He would hear them not, not see them, this gnarled fakir. He sleeps like a babe, old man that he is.

_Rabb raakha_ he would simply say _Rabb raakha_. 

His name is Jangbir Singh. _Shere Punjab._ They would call him affectionately for he had idolised Maharaja Ranjit Singh in his youth. 

But now he feels he can no longer lay claim to that title, no longer share it with the king he admired. For he is a caged lion prowling with a noose hanging over him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jangbir Singh is based off my own father here. Thank you all once again for being so supportive of this story. It is a horrific topic to write and trust me no one is more scared of this than I am. So every comment of love and support means a lot.


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